12 Years of Christmas
by lamentomori
Summary: A little collection of Wintery themed one-shots. 12 verses of 12 Days of Christmas 12 Chapters (plus one extra), each chapter being one Christmas for the first 13 years of 7 Sins Continuity Colt and Punk. Warnings: Slash Colt/Punk, smut, profanity, (attempted) fluff, general fuzzy Christmas feelings and recurring socks.
1. A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), 7 Sins Continuity

* * *

You've not known Punk long, a few months really but over that time you've gotten to be friends. He' a prickly sort of person at first or so Ace warned you _"a salty fucker but good underneath it"_. You don't remember him being particularly salty, you remember him being exasperated by how terrible everyone else in the group was, you remember talking to him, with caution Ace's warning fresh in your ears, about them, joking about terrible they were, giving your own improvised commentary. You remember how he'd laughed, eventually joined in, how amused he'd looked at your less than subtle confidence that you could do better and when you did, you remember how relieved he'd looked, how he'd smiled cheerfully at you and happily engaged you in conversation; you remember Ace staring at you both like he'd just seen hell freeze over. You're almost sad to be left of the _first time I met Punk_ club though, you've heard some good stories.

For you though it was simply you'd impressed Punk and you were impressed with him. If you're honest, you'd kind of heard the name CM Punk before, your best friend had mentioned the backyard promotion Punk had been a part of, you were impressed that it was a bunch of kids not really any older that yourself, were running what was a pretty impressive racket. You'd thought to mention it until someone else brought it up and Punk refused to discuss the topic and stiffed them, it should be remembered that Punk is legitimately dangerous when he wants to be. You didn't mention the LWF to him, learning from mistakes of others. The LWF helped teach you another lesson about Punk, that if you want information from him, don't ask, if he decides it's important to your relationship, he'll tell you. It took maybe a month before he brought it up, explained how he'd parted company with them over training and money, you didn't pry just nodded and ate more pizza. Eventually more of the story came out, how the money had been stolen by his brother, how the others had essentially closed ranks after he'd decided to go and actually _learn_ how to be a wrestler. It explained some of why Punk was quite so prickly, betrayal tends to do that to a person.

Over the time you've known him, you think you've grown closer, your older friends complain that when you're in Chicago you're never around, your best friend, someone you've known since you were old enough to have friends sent you a rather salty text when you missed his birthday. You'd had every intention to go to his party but it was the night Punk randomly invited you out to pizza, the night he brought up the mess with LWF so you can't say you regret it. Punk might not be your best friend, not by a long shot but you know he is becoming more and more important to you, making himself an ever-increasing part of your life. Slowly but surely working his way up the list, you've the strange feeling that before long, you'll look at the odd man sitting Indian style opposite you and wonder how you managed without him. He's throwing one of the many brightly wrapped parcels he's been handing out all day from hand to hand, looking _pensive_.

"I dunno if you _do_ Christmas but here." He tosses you the parcel, you find yourself shaking it out of habit.

"It's not a dreidel is it?" You ask and he rubs the back of his neck, a habit he has when he's fishing for words.

"I couldn't find a dreidel at the ninety-nine cents store." He rests his chin on his laced fingers. "So what happens on Jew Christmas?" You may not have known him long but you've already learnt that he has a terrible tendency to say exactly whatever crosses his mind, whenever it occurs to him. This lack of mental filter has led to some incredible moments of hilarity, like when after training one night, Ace, him and you were sitting in a vegetarian pizza place and he asked, _"Do you think vegans spit or swallow?"_ You'd started laughing so hard you snorted soda out your nose; Ace turned crimson and given one of those odd barks of laughter that only things which are particularly funny get. You still don't know the answer to his question, if he's found out later; he's not shared the knowledge.

"You are so close to anti-Semitism, right now." You tell him, he looks genuinely confused.

"I'm pro-Semitism! I'm pro-all kinds of isms!" You laugh at him; he's pulling some kind of dramatic propaganda pose coupled with a mildly offended expression. "Never really had a proper Jewish friend before, though. So how does it work?" You shake your head at him, there are times you are certain no one who has only met _prickly_ Punk would believe that he is so very _ridiculous _sometimes.

"How does atheist Christmas work?" You ask him instead, explaining Hanukkah isn't something you really want to have to do, it's confusing and has something to do with getting chocolate coins and candles, you think.

"Atheist Christmas?" He tucks his legs back up and looks strangely thoughtful. "I give people socks, I get new socks back. It's like a big sock exchange." You laugh at him again and he kicks at your shin in a half-assed fashion.

"So this wonderful gift is a pair of socks?" You squeeze the parcel, it feels a lot like socks now that he's mentioned. You decide then that he's getting a dreidel from you, you're sure you can find one easily enough.

"You assume it's a pair. Anyway, blah, blah, blah. Jew Christmas?" He asks, his interest clearly piqued.

"Hanukkah."

"Hanukkah, then, how's it work?" You sigh, yet another thing you've learnt about Punk is once he's decided he wants something, be it a piece of information or mastering some new hold, he's tenacious.

"I." You start and pause, you aren't really sure how to explain it to him, you aren't sure if you remember the point of it all yourself, you've never been a particularly good Jew. You don't really know much about it other than the latkes your mother makes are good, your parents on the other hand, they know lot about it. "Come to my place for dinner, you can ask my folks." You tell him, he looks mildly freaked out but is nodding at you, an odd look in his eyes that you don't know him well enough to understand. You feel rather like when you first invited your new friends from school home, excited and nervous and worried that they'll not think your toys are cool.

"I, uh, sure." He stumbles through a reply, rubbing the back of his neck, you find yourself smiling at him, your mother will be pleased, she's been pestering you for weeks now about meeting your wrestling friend Punk.

* * *

_**Merry Christmas!**_ (most specifically to **littleone1389)**

How this will work: _12 verse of 12 Days of Christmas = 12 Chapters_, each chapter being one year, I'm aiming for them to be in chronological order but there will be inevitable historical inaccuracies for which I apologise. Some years will be fluffy, some will be smutty, some will be rather pointless like today. All set in the _7 Sins Continuity_, as ever it's not necessary to read any of the other stories from this Universe, it just adds a little background. :D

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy them and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. (Consider it your Christmas present to me)**_


	2. Two Turtle Doves

_Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), 7 Sins Continuity_

* * *

_My mom wants to know if you're coming over for dinner this year. - sent 10:47_

_Can't, got other plans. Tell her I said hi and I'll come eat all her food in the New Year. - Punkers 11:03_

Your mother seems genuinely disappointed when you tell her; she's rather fond of Punkers. He has a strange ability to make women fall over themselves for him. You aren't sure what it is about him, you asked the girl you were dating briefly earlier in the year about it and all she did was wave her hands at him and sigh. You still don't quite know what she meant by that but you assume, hope, it's not the same reason your mother is so fond of him.

_You free? Come to my place? - Punkers 18:37_

Comes three days later, you send a quick reply confirming you'll be there shortly without really thinking about it. He's become your best friend you realise as you stand on the L. If it were anyone else, you would have likely told them to fuck off. What with you being in Uni you rarely get to see your family, you want to spend time with them but for Punkers, you brave the cold of Chicago in winter and go straight to see him, his Christmas present, even if it is three days late, in your pocket.

He answers the door almost as soon as you knock, his feet bare, his place is gloriously warm, you think as you peel off your coat and shoes. You follow him back to the longue and take a seat on the sofa. He throws you a brightly wrapped parcel as he curls up at the other end of the sofa; you remember his present is still in your coat pocket and quickly fetch it, dropping it in his lap as you retake your seat.

"Merry Christmas, Punkers."

"Yeah, yeah, Happy Hanukkah, Colt." He's already tearing into the little parcel you gave him. "Another one?" The dreidel you've given him this year is bright red; he spins it on the table. "You're gonna have to teach me how to actually play this thing." You nod as you open the parcel he gave you, you already know its socks and you have the odd hope that they're another pair of nicely practical cheap white ones. The bright blue with horrifically yellow Star of David emblazoned pair was not what you were expecting.

"Where the fuck did you find these, Punkers?" He's laughs and looks up from his dreidel.

"A store in New York. Thought you'd appreciate them." He grins at you and you smack the socks on the back of his head.

"I'm touched. I _was_ hoping for a pair from the multi-pack like everyone else though." You set them down on the table. "So you call me over here to gimme my socks?" He nods and returns to playing with the dreidel, something's bothering him, he has that something's wrong set to his shoulders. "My mom missed you, has a whole batch of latkes ready for when you come over." He sighs and sits back on the sofa, feet on the cushions, knees drawn to his chest.

"I went to see my parents." You know little of Punk's family situation, beyond his brother and stealing money from him, you thought he got in well with his parents; he and his sisters seem so close after all.

"I guess even Atheist Christmas is a time for being with family." You say vaguely, did they fight? You've met his mother, she seems so sweet, it's hard to imagine her upsetting him this much, maybe his father is an asshole. It'd go some way to explaining the brother. "You lose a fight with your sister?"

"My _family._" He stresses the word like it should mean more to you than it does. He sighs and looks at you. "The woman you met as my mother, technically she's not. We aren't related." You nod and he looks away, gets up off the sofa and goes to the bathroom, comes back with a little bottle of black nail polish.

"What are you doing?" You ask him, confused.

"If we're having a girly conversation, I'm doing something girly to justify it and my nails need did."

"Such a woman, Punkers." You laugh at him and turn to face him, folding your legs up Indian style as he sets the bottle on the table scooting forward on the sofa so he's closer to the table.

"One free pass. Ask me anything." He says fussing with the bottle's lid, carefully not looking at you. This is clearly a touchy subject.

"Anything?" You ask him, you aren't sure how to handle this. The wrong question will have him clamming up and kicking you out and you don't want that, you're relying on him for a new pair of socks next year after all. "What do you think I should know?" You think that this is the question that will get the most answers out of him. He laughs softly and opens the bottle.

"My father's an alcoholic." He starts painting his pinkie fingernail on the left side, typical Punk go straight for the jugular, the best defence is a good offence.

"He hit you?" You ask him, it's the first thing that occurs to you; the vision of little Punkers covered in bruises flickers through your mind.

"Once or twice, he's not a violent drunk. Just humiliating." Another swipe of the little brush to his nail, the black polish covering it in a thin layer. "He would get shit-faced and be late picking me up from little league a lot." You have another vision of a much younger Punkers standing waiting for his father to arrive, rain or shine, little Punkers waiting and hoping that his dad wouldn't be too drunk to drive. He moves on to the next nail. "You know they think that alcoholism is genetic."

"So that's why-" He makes a quiet agreeing noise and keeps painting his nails.

"My mother is crazy, bi-polar." You stare at the back off his head, feeling slightly at a loss as for what to do with that information. "Was hooked on meds for as far back as I can remember. Sometimes she'd come off of them and shit." He gets off the sofa and went back the bathroom, comes back with a bottle of remover and some cotton, starts fixing where the brush had slipped and painted half of one finger black. "Trips to ER aren't fun at Christmas." He says quietly. You suppose that it was around Christmas time when his mother would come off her meds and well you can imagine why the family Brooks would be making a trip to ER. You scoot a little closer to him, you want to do something to make him feel better, he's your best friend, it's your job to make him happy but you have no clue as to what will work here. "I get sentimental sometimes." He starts on his right hand. "Went to see them and yeah, we fought. Reminded me why I don't have anything to do with them." You guess his whole family have a hand in making Punkers so very prickly, a catalogue of neglect, treachery and betrayal. He finishes painting his nails in silence, is putting the lid back on the bottle when you snatch it from him. "I don't think your mom would approve, Cabana." He says, a hint of amusement colouring his tone. You shrug and scoot back to your end of the sofa and lean over to grab his leg, dragging his feet to your lap. "The fuck?" You grin at him.

"On the off-chance there was going to be any more girly conversation." You shrug and he looks at you, you think it's a cross between amusement, confusion and mild irritation, learning to read Punkers' looks is taking some time, they tend to be multilayered.

"Ain't got much else to say on the topic really." He says watching you as you start to paint his toenails, cautiously, you doubt he'd appreciate you giving him black toes, you're glad your hand is so steady. "I did something stupid, should have known better but I didn't." He sighs and wriggles the toes on the foot you've just finished painting. "Not bad, Cabana. You can add nail technician to your list of reasons why chicks should date you." You laugh at him and smack his ankle.

"Stop stealing them all then! I swear my own mother loves you more than me!" He barks at laugh at your whining, you set the bottle of polish on the table and watch the TV that's been playing some Christmas special the whole time you've been here, you just never really noticed it before, your best friend was more important.

You send a quick message to your mother; ask her to start cooking the latkes she has prepped for when Punkers comes over. You phone makes a noise, drawing Punkers' attention from the TV to it, your mother replied she'd already started cooking when you left and if you don't hurry up everything will be stone cold. "Come on, your toes should be dry by now, let's go." You tip his feet from your lap and stand. He looks up at you confused.

"Where?" You offer him your hand and haul him to his feet.

"My place, dinner's almost ready." He smiles at you, the _thanks Colt you're the best_ smile that you get a lot these days. You grin back at him and go to put on your coat. Job done, you think. His _family_ might have betrayed and abandoned him but he forged a new one. A family bound not in blood but in loyalty, a family you're sure you and your own are being slowly drawn into. You smile at him as he wraps a scarf around his neck, a softly content grin on his face and a bag of brightly wrapped presents in his hand, if there's one thing you can say for the Colton's, they're a fiercely loyal bunch.

* * *

**littleone1389: **I'm glad you enjoyed the first part of your pressie. :3 At least that's how I'll read that review. ;) Hopefully part two is as pleasing. :3

**agd888**: Not so much a story as a collection of one-shots but I am so glad you're here. :D Hope you enjoyed the 2nd year of Chirstmas. :D

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. Consider it your Christmas present to me, it'll be a better present that the million apples I'm going to get! ;) **_


	3. Three French Hens

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), 7 Sins Continuity, terrible jokes.

* * *

It was agreed that as you would all crash at Prazak's place after the show, the Gold Bond Mafia, Hero and associated other halves, all cramped into Prazak's tiny place for the purposes of unofficial early Christmas dinner. Dinner which you, Punkers and the Monte, Punkers' beloved new toy, had been sent to fetch.

"Queue is insane, be a half hour." You tell Punk as you get back in the car, only to find the driver's seat empty. "You here?" You squint into the back of the car and then notice the trunk is popped, you'd wondered where the draft was coming from.

"C'mere!" Punkers shouts at you, he's head first in a decent sized cardboard box. "Hold this." He hands you a flashlight and you shine it into the box, seeing it filled with a couple of big bottles of Pepsi and Christmas presents, a brief thought goes to the bagful you dumped in the backseat when Punkers picked you up. "Aha! Got it. Go get yours, dump them in." You fetch the bag and pour them into the box. He throws some bright red fabric in on top.

"Santa hat?"

"Hats!" He sounds unreasonably pleased with himself, you shake your head at him and shut off the flashlight tossing it into the trunk. "When they say the food'd be ready?" He asks as he gets back in the car.

"Thirty minutes, about half past." You tell him, he nods and tosses you your Christmas present.

"Shouldn't you wait to give me this with all the others?" You ask him, he shakes his head, that ridiculous grin still on his face.

"Nope, open it." You shrug and fish his present out of your pocket, if you're honest you were going to give it to him before you got to Prazak's, it seems a little silly but everyone else is getting something a bit nicer than a dreidel and this is a Punkers and Cabana thing, you don't feel like fielding questions on it and knowing your friends there would be questions, nosy assholes that they are. As ever he tears into it, grin somehow managing to get bigger.

"This one's different." He taps the side of the dreidel marked 'פ'. "This should be a wonky W. Not a weird upside down G." You smile at him, stupidly pleased he noticed the difference.

"From Israel, that's why."

"You got me a foreign dreidel?" He sounds oddly touched.

"Well, I got my mom to bring you _back_ a foreign dreidel but same thing I guess." You find yourself feeling ridiculously proud with how happy he looks with his present, it might be a silly present but he's happy so job done.

"Open it." He points at the parcel sitting in your lap. You open the parcel carefully out of habit, your mother would have smacked you on the head if you tore into presents the way Punkers does, of course he gets away with it but then your mother completely loves Punkers more than you. You were expecting socks, a little part of you was hoping for another nice pair like the ones you got last year, which you're wearing, the stars might be hideously yellow but the damn things are warm. When all you see is a generic pair of white socks there's a little sting of disappointment, that is until you turn them over and see the _Gold Bond_ logo woven into the around the top.

"Where the fuck did these come from?" You ask him, his grin is definitely bigger this time, he looks like he might start cackling with laughter at any moment.

"China probably but they were _bought_ on the Internet." You stare at him, he bought you what you're imagining are customised socks from the Internet for Christmas, you're gonna have to get him one hell of a dreidel next year. "Now you see why you get your present first, imagine how jealous they'd be if they saw those, Cabana." He grins at you and you find yourself returning the expression, probably looking just as ridiculous.

"I shall wear them proudly."

"Good, good. Go get the pizza."

The box, pizza included, turns out to be surprisingly heavy and awkward to carry, you grab one side and him the other carrying it between you, like it was part of the ring you have to lug about on weekends. You're both trying to navigate the door to the lounge when Prazak's voice calls out.

"Wait!" You both stop halfway in the room.

"Kiss!" Punk's girlfriend laughs and points up at the doorframe, a piece of mistletoe hangs there. Punkers leans over the box between the two of you and his lips brush your cheek gently. You stare at him incredulously.

"That was a shitty kiss, Punk! Properly" You're inclined to agree with Dave, it was a shitty kiss but you aren't really sure why there should be demands for more kissing, you've both fulfilled your mistletoe requirements. Punkers' girlfriend is laughing hysterically at you all; Prazak is waving his arms and looking overly invested in you and Punkers kissing, you have a feeling and the empty beer cans confirm it, that they've all been drinking.

"Fuck you Prazak. If you wanna kiss me so bad get over here." Punk snaps and Dave practically leaps over the table he's sat behind, bounces over to Punkers and grabs him, making the side of the box Punkers was carrying drop, you scramble to get a better grip on it. "Fuck, how much have you drunk, man?" Punk's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Prazak lets him go.

"Where's my kiss, bro?" You find yourself asking before you've even thought about it and you're then grabbed by an over-enthusiastic and alcoholic tasting Dave. You're very grateful Punkers had already grabbed the box before you were assaulted and it feels very much like you just endured an assault.

"So you gonna kiss him properly or not, Punker?" The girlfriend is asking, you wish you could remember her name, she's new and you miss Nate, she brought cupcakes, delicious cupcakes. The first time you met her she'd a whole plate of different ones sitting on the coffee table, one of each kind, you and Punkers had demolished them, eating each cake one at time sharing it by messily pulling it in half, debating the flavour, texture and consistency, as well as apparently amusing Nate vastly. She's compared you to children; it's a comparison your relationship with Punk draws a lot. You would dispute this, you're both responsible adults, okay, you're both technically adults, responsible _may_ be pushing it a little far. You still miss her sending Punkers to training with a Ziploc bag of your favourites, which whilst he was sent with instructions that they were all for you, you would then end up sharing with Punkers because they were his favourites too. He looks at you over the box and you shrug, juggle the box so it's resting on one arm and one knee. You use your newly freed hand to catch the back of his neck and pull his face closer to you, the box is sitting at an awkward angle and digs into your chest as you press your lips to his softly, you're pretty sure that slipping him tongue would be weird so you keep your mouth closed and kiss him as best you can. Prazak and the girlfriend are catcalling and cheering when you let him go.

"This fucking pizza is gonna fucking cold by now, I hope you assholes realise this." Punkers snaps when you both finally get through the door and set the box down on the floor. You take a seat by Hero, who has been diligently polishing off a beer, trying to ignore the rest of the gathered group. He nods a greeting to you and grabs a slice of pizza as soon as Punkers opens the first box, then perches on the arm of the chair his girlfriend is sitting in, one of his feet resting on the arm of the sofa you're sat on.

"So, Colt, who's the better kisser?" The girlfriend asks you after the pizza's gone. You glance at Punkers, who looks at you _you've no idea what she's called, do you?_ his expression asks you, you shrug in answer.

"Prazak mouth raped me! It's not a fair comparison" You tell her and throw an arm around Hero's shoulders. "I bet that's what happened to you too, huh?" Hero nods pitifully.

"I'm drinking to forget." He mutters, a wry smile on his face.

"We could start a support group." Punk suggests picking up his glass of Pepsi. "Survivors of Prazak mouth rape. Fuck, S.P.M.R. is a shit acronym, someone think of a better name."

"Survivors of Prazak's Ever Raping Mouth?" You smirk at Punkers, who proceeds to choke on the soda he'd just taken a mouthful of, it takes everyone else a few seconds to work it out, which results in a mixed chorus of groans and laughs. Prazak manages to look at once too drunk to be following the conversation and mildly offended.

"What else is the box?" He's leaning over the girlfriend trying to peek into it.

"Presents." You pick one of the Santa hats out of the box and toss it to Punkers before putting your own on. The girlfriend is squeaking at Punkers and declaring him adorable, he rubs the back of his neck and looks mildly uncomfortable but manfully endures her snapping a pictures of him with her phone. She waves you over so that you're in the next shot.

"Smile!" You pull what is likely the most ridiculous face in the World and then start handing presents up to Punk, who starts throwing them to their intended recipients with a mildly begrudged _"Merry Christmas."_

* * *

**littleone1389**: This one is just a little silly but then again I'm not sure the Gold Bond Mafia could be anything but a little silly. :D Hope you like it!

**InYourHonour**:Thank you, I hope you enjoy this little festive collection too! :3

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, it'll be a better present than the apples that are already piling up, come December 26th I am going to need a lot a apple recipes.**_


	4. Four Colly Birds

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), mentions of Slash (7 Sins Sloth), 7 Sins Continuity

* * *

It's been months since that day in the dungeon room when you jerked him off, you know you've been purposefully winding him up, you know that you've been pushing him away by playing on his nerves. You can't help it though, you've no idea how to mention it to him, no idea how to tell him what you did and you need to discuss it. Every time you close your eyes you can picture him lying in the bed, skin flushed chest heaving, your hand around his cock, his face as he came, how _pretty_ he was. It's been a horrible few months, he's still in a lot of pain, he still looks so weary and sore so much of the time. You want to comfort him, it's your job after all but you don't think it would be as innocent as it once was, not when you've seen him come, not when you want to see it again. So you've been carefully considering how to bring it up, carefully planning how best to address the fact that you wouldn't be averse to doing it again, with him a more coherent partner but you have no idea how to start the conversation. You know that he knows something is wrong, he's known you long enough to read you pretty well.

"Happy Hanukkah, fucker." Your brightly wrapped Christmas present falls into your lap as he takes a seat on the sofa. You look over at him, an odd expression on his face, mild irritation, resignation and determination. "Christmas is a time for sharing, so share." He's staring at the TV, as though he doesn't really care but the set of his shoulders gives away his interest in what you have to say.

"Share what, Punkers?" You tap his shoulder with his present. He looks at it briefly confused; it looks much bigger than the dreidel you've given him for the last three years. He tears into it and looks even more confused.

"The fuck?" He holds up the CD that was in the parcel, the little box ignored for now. You smile at him. "You give me porn?

"Open the box, Punkers." He shrugs and does as you ask, inside is a wooden dreidel, it doesn't look like much but you watched, you recorded it being made, asked the little old man who whittled it and burnt the markings on it to put the little X on the top specifically.

"This is dreidel porn, then?" He asks turning the little wooden dreidel around in his hands, running his nail along the X burnt into the top. You laugh.

"You want porn that badly, I'll get you some next year." He looks over at you, his expression a little confusing but you think that it means _at this rate you really think that we'll be friends next year?_ It hurts a little that he'd think that after over three years of being his friend, most of those spent with him being your _best _friend, you'd just give him up, you're in this for the long haul, you aren't going to be one of the far too many people who have turned their backs on him. Right now, there may be some difficulties between you, there might be some issues that you need to deal with but you're not going anywhere, you're in his life for good whether he likes it or not. "It's the birth of your dreidel." You move closer to him, gesturing to the disc sitting in his lap.

"You filmed someone making my Christmas present?" He sounds slightly confused but is studying the dreidel even more closely, looking at it with renewed respect, you smile slightly. "It take long?" He asks, spinning it for the first time, a silly grin lighting up his face as it spins and spins and keeps spinning.

"A while, not too long. He was a nice old dude, knew lots of history. It's a pretty interesting video." You shrug, the old man had been fascinated by the fact you were intending to give his dreidel to someone like Punkers, had offered to explain the history of them whilst he made one for you. You'd not been able to resist filming it all on your phone, you're sure the resolution and sound will be terrible but that Punkers will appreciate the information the old man imparts.

"Did a good job. Open your present, Cabana." He doesn't look up from the still spinning dreidel. You do as he asks, carefully unwrapping your gift. The pair of socks it reveals has you freezing. "What? You don't like them?" He looks at you, his eyes lazily half-closed and slightly smug look on his face. You feel a blush creeping up your neck. There is no way that these seemingly innocuously festive socks should make you this uncomfortable but they are covered in little beardless Santa Claus'. The conversation you had in the dungeon with him comes back to you.

_"Colt?"_

_"No, it's Santa Claus." _

_"I thought you had a beard?" _

_"It's me. It's Colt."_

"How." You start, your voice is a pitiful croak, you clear your throat and try again. "How much do you remember?"

"Enough." He says shortly, his tone giving nothing away, his attention back to the dreidel.

"I." You sigh. "I'm sorry. I took advanta-"

"You didn't hear me complaining." He interrupts you and you stare at him, you wish then that he would look at you, that you could see his eyes so you could make a better guess at what he's thinking.

"You couldn't have complained even if you wanted to, Punkers." Your voice is a soft sad little whine even to your own ears.

"I'm not some fucking helpless maiden, Cabana." He snaps at you and spins the dreidel too hard and it skitters across the table and falls on its side rather than spinning and spinning and spinning like it has been.

"I didn't say you were, Punk but the fact is, I took advantage of you. You were vulnerable and I for-"

"You forced nothing on me." He says plainly and then raises his hand to his forehead, rubbing at it. Even now, so long after his injury he still gets horrible headaches. This conversation can wait; your best friend needs you more than you need to talk about this.

"Wanna watch your present being born?" You ask him, he looks at you, his eyebrows drawn in pain and manages a very small nod. "It's a pretty quiet video, shouldn't hurt your head." You stick the CD into the disc drive of the computer Punkers has sitting on the coffee table, one for lack of space and two because that way he can multitask. He looks thoroughly miserable sitting there beside you, still rubbing his temples. You move over back to your end of the sofa, drop one of the throw pillow in your lap and wrap an arm around his shoulders and guide him carefully down to rest his head on the pillow in your lap. He makes a pained little noise and screws his eyes shut, squirming to make himself more comfortable, eventually pulling the pillow out from under his head and resting it on your thighs instead. "Better?" You ask him softly, he makes a quiet agreeing noise. You carefully start to stroke his hair, feeling so much like you did in that little dungeon of a room. You press play, starting the video of the birth of his dreidel. The conversation you need to have, the horrifically awkward conversation you both seem to _want_ to have can wait till he's better, it'll give you more time to prepare, you still don't have anything better than _Hey! Remember when your skull was fractured and I jacked you off?_ Your mind starts trying to form something better all over again and your fingers keep moving through his hair, petting him gently. "Merry Christmas, Punkers." You say quietly as the old man begins explaining the history of the dreidel.

* * *

**littleone1389**: I had to put Dave in! Prazak is awesome! I love the guy! The SPERM acronym had me snickering; I have such childish sense of humour. A slightly different mood for this one, a little more maudlin than the other years. I hope you liked it, though. :D

**alizabethianrose**: Not too much banter in this one but those two kind of require some banter, it's how they work, I think. :D Hope you enjoyed this installment.

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, it'll be a better present than the apples that are already piling up, come December 26th I am going to need a lot a apple recipes, if you've any good ones that don't need an oven, let me know. :D**_


	5. Five Gold Rings

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), Slash, profanity, 7 Sins Continuity

* * *

It's been an odd year you think sitting on his sofa in Philly. It started with you two, not fighting exactly but definitely not on the same page, the incident in the dungeon room hanging over your relationship like a black cloud. You finally sat down and discussed it, well you tried to sit down and discuss it but what really happened was Punkers launched himself at you and stuck his tongue down your throat before demanding you jerk him off again. The conversation happened when you were lying panting on his bed, your cum drying on your stomach and Punkers' head on your chest. It hadn't been quite as awkward as you had thought it would be, kind of more confusing than anything. Punkers had told you he'd thought it had all been a strange but ultimately, incredibly enjoyable dream until you had started acting differently around him; the socks from last Christmas had been a test to see how you would react to it being brought up. Your reaction had, from what you could gather based on what Punkers didn't say, usually a more reliable method of reading him you've found, proved that you'd at once passed and failed the test. So, he'd decided to wait you out but when push came to shove and conversation began, he decided that the best offence was a good offence and kissed you. After that it was like nothing had happened between you, the air was cleared and now you had a new and exciting way to pass time in each other's company. You feel guilty whenever you meet the newest woman in Punkers' life but the guilt is slowly being edged out by the weird feeling that somehow they are the other woman and should be more intimated by meeting you.

"So, what do you think?" He flops down beside you, his head resting on your shoulder.

"I think it's a little hypocritical that an atheist has just spent like an hour putting a Christmas tree up." Your hand is stroking his hair without you even thinking about it.

"Pff. Trees have a long and storied non-theistic background." He sounds mildly offended. "And if the fucking thing was still in its box when she got back, she'd have my balls." You bark a laugh.

"Well, _that's_ more like the real answer. Is it worth me trying to remember this one's name?" You ask him, he laughs at you.

"I could tell you a thousand times and you'd still fucking forget it, Cabana."

"It's not like you keep them very long, there's no point in me learning the name of one, only for it to be a different one the next time I see you." As you speak, your hand brushes his ear and he turns to bite your fingers, a sharp little nip that has you shaking your hand.

"Don't touch my fucking ears." He snaps.

"Okay, okay but why?" You ask him as he gets up off the sofa to plug the lights on the tree into the socket.

"I don't fucking like it so don't fucking do it, fucker." He mutters, cursing at the length of the cord. "Move the tree over like six inches."

"Did the other kids pick on you for them? Call you Dumbo?" You get up and move the tree as he asked.

"Fuck off." He bristles, well that answers that then. The tree looks rather pretty all lit up you think.

"Don't worry Punkers, I like your ears. They're cute." You make a silly face at him and he scowls in response.

"Don't fucking call me cute, Cabana."

"I didn't! Your ears, they are cute! You, you're kinda scruffy." He throws your Christmas present at you, hitting you square in the face, you're very glad that it's most likely a pair of socks. "With aim like that Punkers, there's a promising darts career for you if this wrestling thing doesn't work out."

"Fuck you." He sits back down on the sofa, curled up on the opposite end from you. "Wit like that and you could be a comedian." You smile at him and toss him his present. He tears it open and grins at it. The little dreidel this year is painted in the Chicago flag colours, the top and lower sections light blue, the middle white, the characters and little star on the top bright red.

"To remind you of home." You say softly, leaving out the _and me_ you want so very much to add. You miss him now that he's in Philadelphia. You think the distance has helped your relationship, you may have spent too much time in each other's pockets before but it's difficult knowing how far you'd have to come to just see him. Still meeting back up has become rather glorious, you've had sex in all manner of hotel rooms and other more interesting places. He spins the dreidel on the coffee table, looking as pleased as he always does when it spins and spins without stopping for a surprisingly long time.

"As if I could forget." His voice is slightly hoarse. "Open your present, Colt." You peel back the bright paper carefully, wondering what manner of weird socks he's got you this year, the beardless Santa ones are on your feet, keeping them cosy and warm. He clearly only purchases quality foot apparel for you. This year the socks are black, covered in little red _straightedge hardcore_ X's. Your breath catches in your throat, clearly distance has put you both in the same frame of mind but really as if you'd ever need reminding of him. "I-"

"I'll wear them and think of you, darling." You blow him a kiss and he kicks you of the sofa onto the floor.

"You sure as hell aren't allowed to call me fucking darling!" He sounds downright indignant. You smile, for all his feminism, he gets very touchy about having his masculine pride affronted. He huffs to himself. "You even think of calling me _baby_ or _sweetie_ or anything else like that and you can forget about fucking me _ever_ again."

"A bold threat, Punkers." You say absently, moving closer to him on your knees, resting your forearms on his thighs.

"I'm serious, fucker." He genuinely looks serious, you nod at him, trying to keep a straight face.

"Can't touch your ears, can't give you cutesy pet names. What can I do, Punkers?" You ask him. He reaches for you, grabs your head and pulls you up to him, a lazy smirk on his lips.

"You can kiss me, fucker." You press your lips to his, the kiss starts out slow and soft but quickly escalates to something more frantic and hurried, hands stroking and groping at each other. You pull away from him before you take this farther, you don't have time, the girlfriend will be back soon. You get back up on the sofa, he switches the TV on, remote in his hand, rapidly clicking through the stations, as he rests his head in your lap.

"Happy Hanukkah, Colt." He mutters, still attempting to find something worth watching. You smile down at him, brush a soft kiss over his brow and let your fingers start running through his hair.

"Merry Christmas, Punkers."

* * *

**littleone1389**: I'm glad you're still enjoying them! :D They've finally discussed the elephant in the room. (next one will be a expansion on an incident Colt mentions in Envy because you know how linked I end up making everything. :D) Hope you liked this one, kind of back to sweet and a little silly.

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, it'll be a better present than the apples that are already piling up, come December 26th I am going to need a lot a apple recipes, if you've any good ones that don't need an oven, let me know. :D**_


	6. Six Geese a Laying

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), slash, smut, 7 Sins Continuity

* * *

"Why have we stopped?" You were dozing, aimlessly watching the snow falling on the windshield and the wipers swiping it away, when the Monte came to a halt. Punkers gives an oddly embarrassed laugh and is rubbing the back of his neck.

"We're out of gas." He looks suitably contrite, you think, being stuck in the ass-end of nowhere on Christmas Eve, even if it is with him, is not high on your list of priorities.

"Call Triple A." You're tired and sore, alls you want is to crawl into bed and sleep, his presence in said bed is entirely optional but preferred. You don't want to be sitting in the rapidly dropping temperatures of the stationary Monte. He gives that laugh again, you groan, _what now?_

"My cell is out of battery."

"Punkers, what the fuck?" You're unimpressed and really, it's not like him to forget something that important. "We were at a gas station like an hour ago; why the fuck didn't you fill the fucking tank then?"

"Well, you see, uh, the gauge is kinda broken; it looked like there was plenty of gas." He's rubbing his neck again and looking downright pitiful.

"Your car is a piece of shit, Punkers." Being cold always makes you irritable and right now, you're _cold_, he looks devastated on the Monte's behalf and starts stroking the steering wheel.

"Don't listen to him, baby. He's a fucking moron, who doesn't know any better, you're a good girl."

"Here, use my cell." You scrub your face with one hand and fish your own cell out of your pocket, only to find the same problem, you forgot to charge the damn thing in the hotel last night, too preoccupied with the fact it was the first time in weeks you'd been alone with Punkers. You stuff the cell back in your pocket and scowl at the still falling snow. He raises his eyebrow and you shake your head, you're stuck here for now it would seem.

"There's bound to be another gas station close, I'll go look." He unbuckles his seat belt and moves to leave the car. You grab his wrist.

"It's snowing, Punkers." You state like it should cover everything from _you'll freeze to you'll get lost_ and you think it probably does when all he does is sigh and draw his knees up to his chest, feet resting on the seat. You sit in silence for a while, the cold and his silence does nothing to ease your temper.

"Wanna play I spy?" He asks, sounding miserably cold too. You turn to look at him; his head is bowed, resting on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs.

"I spy with my little eye something beginning with S." You say dryly.

"Superman?" He asks, not looking up.

"No."

"Sinatra?"

"No."

"Schwarzenegger?"

"No."

"Spiderman?"

"No, Punk." You can tell he's trying to amuse you; it's not working. He sighs and turns his face toward you.

"Snow?"

"Well done, Phil." He sighs again and turns away from you once more.

"You cold?" He asks, you find yourself having to fight the urge to smack him on the head, obviously, you're cold. It's freezing in this pile of shit car of his. He leans over you, opens the glove compartment and pulls out your Christmas present, dropping it in your lap as he retreats to his side of the car, curling back up into himself. "Use them as gloves." He mutters, rubbing his hands up and down his legs.

"I don't have yours." You tell him as you open the parcel carefully.

"S'okay, don't give presents expecting them back." He mutters softly. Your socks this year are covered in little dreidels. Great minds think alike it would seem, the dreidel you asked the old man to make this year and it does strike you as odd that you now have a go to dreidel guy, has four little socks on it instead of the traditional Hebrew letters. The old man had been incredibly confused and amused by your story that it was for your Atheist friend, how Atheist Christmas was a big sock exchange and you felt it was time that you complied at least a little. He's a nice old dude, you'll need to ask him his name, you think.

"I'll give it to you when we get back, home." You smile at him stroking his hair, carefully avoiding his ears; he tends to get bitey when his ears are involved. He stays with his head pressed to his knees, your fingers trail over his neck and he shivers.

"Fuck your hands are _freezing_, Cabana." He raises his head and looks at you appraisingly before moving over the centre console, straddling you legs awkwardly.

"Whatcha doing?" You ask him and he kisses you, deep and thorough. "It's too cold for sex, Punkers." You mutter as he breaks the kiss, your hands tuck his hair behind his ears, he grins at you.

"I know." He adjusts the seat so that it's as far back as it can go and squirms down into the foot well. "Gonna warm you up, though."

"How do you intend to do that?" You ask him as he looks up at from where he's kneeling and rolls his eyes at you.

"I'd have thought that would be obvious, fucker." He unzips your pants and draws your cock out, wraps his lips around the flaccid length and begins to suck gently. You fist your hands on your thighs as his tongue circles the head of your cock, carefully running the stud along the vein on the underside, licking your hardening cock long and slow, flicking the head with quick little swipes of his tongue before taking it back in to his warm mouth, the contrast between the frigid air and his hot mouth, odd and pleasing. Once your fully hard, your hands cup the back of his head, drawing him further down your length, triggering his gag reflex, deep throating isn't really Punkers' thing. He pulls back with a sharp glare and smacks at your hands, grabs them and puts them on your thighs once more.

"Keep them there." His voice is a little hoarse, something that shouldn't make you happy but it does, it causes an odd burst of pride in you. You nod and leave your hands where he left them. He bobs his head up and down your length, his tongue pressed firmly against the underside of your cock. You manage to keep your hands on your legs, until one of his hands slips in your pants and fondles your balls. You rest them on his head, fingers tangled in the bleached strands, he makes a soft almost gagging noise and moans. There aren't many feelings better than Punkers' smart mouth wrapped around your cock and his long fingers stroking your balls but when he moans and the soft vibrations ripple around your length just edges it from the top spot. He moves his head more quickly, taking you a little deeper with each bob down. Someday, you think, you'll learn what it feels like to be buried in that pretty little throat of his, one day you'll know how it feels to have him swallowing around you, even just the thought brings you closer. You keep your eyes focused on the sight of his face, eyebrows drawn in concentration, eyes mostly closed, thin slits of colour gazing up at you, his thin lips stretched around your cock, the length moving in and out of him, the cold air rapidly chilling the dampness left by his mouth, the combination of the two temperatures giving the sensations an extra edge. He moans again and you come with a soft groan of his name, your hands tangled in his hair. As your breathing slows you notice his arm moving subtly, stroking himself, your cock gamely attempts a twitch but you ignore it, the cold is slowly seeping back into you. You tuck yourself back in your pants and zip them up. "C'mere, Punkers." You tilt his face up to you and he gracelessly clambers back up, straddling your legs, his cock out, hard and leaking, his face flushed, lips slightly swollen. "Come for me." You press your lips to his and his hand goes back to his cock, stroking and twisting, bringing him closer and closer to the edge, you knock his hand out of the way and stroke him yourself, his head falls back, hits the windshield.

"Oww, fuck, faster, Colt, I'm close." He pants out, you move your hand faster, twisting your wrist when you reach the head, just the way he likes it. He comes quietly, a soft moan of nothing particular, it always amuses you how Punkers, so loud in every other aspect of his life, is so quiet when he fucks you. You fish a tissue from your pocket and wipe your hand clean, tuck him back in and zip him up as he pants against your ear. "This is fucking uncomfortable." Quiet, yes, less likely to bitch, no, you think with a wry smile.

"Fuck off back to your own side then." You tell him, wrapping your arms around him. He's always so warm, no matter how uncomfortable this is, you're not letting him go without a fight.

"Lemme go, Cabana." He mutters as he tries to squirm out of your hold.

"No, you're warm." You tell him, pressing soft kisses to his neck.

"There's a blanket in the back, I'll share it with you." He says, tilting his head giving you access to more of his throat.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" You pat his thigh indicating he should move. He clambers to the back and is unfolding the blanket when you settle in beside him. He wraps the blanket around you both. You pull him to you, let him rest his head on your shoulder, adjust his half-assed job with the blanket so that it actually covers you both and press a kiss to his hair.

"So I get my present tomorrow?" He asks you, sounding sleepy.

"I thought you didn't give presents to get one back, Punkers." He fidgets slightly, you squeeze his shoulder and he stills.

"Well, yeah _but_ you said you didn't have a present with you so it's reasonable to conclude that my present is at your place."

"And you intend to crash at my place?"

"Very kind of you to offer, Colt. I'd love to stay at your place." He manages to at once sound half-asleep and smug as hell, he's a multitalented man, Punkers. "Go to sleep, fucker, I'm sending you out to find the gas station in the morning."

"Fuck you, Punk, this is your pi-"

"You insult my baby and you get nothing from me till New Years." You laugh at him and press a kiss to his hair.

"Merry Christmas Punkers." You aim to distract him with non sequiturs, you've no intention of finding that fucking gas station he can do it himself. Right now though, you're warming up with him pressed against you and arguing is the last thing on your mind. He wriggles slightly, turning himself to wrap his arms about your waist, his legs thrown over your lap, head on your chest.

"Happy Hanukkah, Colt."

* * *

**littleone1389**: I hope this lived up to the brief mention the incident gets in Envy. (my favourite of 7 sins... writing phonesex was hard but I weirdly like it the best of all the smut I've written.) Snow, smut and snuggling, I hope you approve! :D

**alizabethianrose**: He was a bit of a geek as a kid... I'm not sure why but especially in his Indy days he always had thing about keeping his ears covered, it's led to 7sinsPunk having a complex, it comes up in a few other stories in this continuity. Hope you liked it.

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


	7. Seven Swans a Swimming

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (I concede, this is the fluffiest thing I have ever written), slash, 7 Sins Continuity

* * *

_Be back Christmas day; I expect hot chocolate_. - Punkers 15:48

You were supposed to be back in Chicago earlier today, yesterday you suppose now looking at your cell, after three in the morning on the twenty-fifth, you suppose you'll have time to sleep before Punkers arrives. You're glad you'd collected his dreidel from Hershel; dreidel guy really couldn't have a more Jewish name if his parents had tried, before you headed out on your little tour. You open your apartment door, step in, lock it behind start walking and promptly fall flat on your face.

"Fuck!" Your rude introduction to the floor was incredibly painful; your nose certainly isn't thanking you for it. You can't think of any potential trip hazards just beyond your front door until you get up and look around, slumped against the wall, out cold, is Punkers. "The hell, Punkers?" You keep your voice quiet, by the looks of things, sleep is something he needs desperately, the bags under his eyes look painful, his hair a limp mess, his skin pale, the fake tan more orange because of it. You shake your head and aren't quite sure what to do with him, slumped as he is, one shoe on, the other responsible for your face-plant, sound asleep. You sigh and take off his other shoe, putting it and its brother in a less hazardous place. You have, you think, three options, one: you could wake him up, he wouldn't thank you for it but it would be the quickest way to get him to bed. Two: you could try and move him without waking him, which would be difficult, Punkers' isn't exactly light and while his height is evenly distributed between those lovely legs of his and his torso, the weight is annoyingly all at the top or there's option three. You go to the bedroom and grab the comforter off the bed, dragging it back to where Punk is sleeping, you sit beside him, wrap an arm around his shoulders, tugging him to slump against you and tuck the comforter around you both. He'll bitch and whine about you letting him sleep on the floor but his complaints will be lessened by the fact you joined him and brought a blanket. He squirms around beside you, asleep Punkers' natural instinct is to gravitate towards anything warm that he can curl up around and before long; he's wrapped about you. You find yourself drifting off to sleep, absently stroking the thigh he's thrown over your legs.

"Why are we on the floor?" You're awoken by Punkers' voice and a sharp little kick to your shin.

"Good morning to you too, Punkers." You mutter, leaning down to rub at your recently assaulted leg. "As for why are we on the floor, the question is _why were_ _you_ _on the floor_? Was it to try and kill me?" He looks confused and rubs the back of his neck.

"I fell asleep on the floor?" He yawns and you shrug, that would be the only logical answer. "I don't remember." He sounds mildly confused and still half-asleep, you check your cell, it's just after six am, you've been sleeping on the floor for maybe three hours.

"C'mon, bed." You stand and haul him to his feet, letting him bundle himself up in the comforter. The trip to bed is uneventful, you both stripping to underwear, rearranging the comforter on the bed, before curling up beneath it in a tangle of you attempting to find some space where there isn't some part of him and him in general. Punkers is a messy sleeper, managing to be curled tightly around you and somehow still taking up the majority of the bed, all at the same time.

You wake more reasonably the second time, he's still asleep, having moved from how he was initally wrapped around you and is now lying with his head on your chest, legs splayed with most of the blankets wrapped around him.

"Punkers, move." You shake him gently, you need to visit the bathroom and trying to sneak out of bed from underneath him is too much hassle, it generally leads to him being wrapped more firmly around you than he was in the first place. He grumbles but does shift off of you, wrapping the remainder of the comforter around himself, like a cocoon. After your trip to the bathroom, rather than attempting to pry some corner out from his clutches, you go to the kitchen, you're sure there should be some Swiss Miss in there somewhere, possibly even some marshmallows.

When you enter the lounge, he's on the sofa, the comforter still wrapped around him and still looking mildly sleepy. He looks up at you and a grin lights up his face.

"You pay attention, good man." You hand him a mug and set your own on the coffee table, trying to pry a corner of the comforter from his cocoon, he eventually relents and gives you enough to wrap around yourself. "What's the plan?" You shrug in response to his question, honestly, you have no plans, you're going to see your parents tomorrow, there's people that you'll go and see, probably with Punkers, later in the week so today there is nothing on the cards.

"Watch shit TV and eat junk, I guess." You glance over at him; he's drinking his hot chocolate with that silly grin still in place.

"Sounds good, I brought the Christmas Classics." He sets his cup down and wriggles out the bottom of the blanket cocoon to his bag, lying by the door and comes back with your Christmas present and a stack of pirated DVDs, he sets them on the table and crawls back under the blanket. You grab the stack of DVDs and attempt to read his messy scrawl.

"I fail to see how_ American Psycho_ is a Christmas movie, Punkers."

"It's very festive! There's that whole scene with a Christmas party!"

"_The Thing_?"

"It has snow in it."

"Okay, _Halloween_?"

"I can justify that one too!"

"_Really_?" You raise an eyebrow at him, he has a look of fierce determination on his face, you get a feeling the connection to Christmas is about to be proven to be incredibly tenuous.

"Jamie Lee Curtis was in _True Lies_ with Arnie, who was in _Jingle All the Way_. See festive." He sounds unreasonably smug.

"This will be why _Terminator_ and _Predator_ are in here then."

"Well _Predator's_ in there for Jesse too." He's rubbing the back of his neck.

"Is there anything, you know, actually Christmassy in here, Punkers?" You've given up looking through the pile, you spotted _No Holds Barred_ and _Santa with Muscles_, which you decide you're definitely watching at some stage during the day.

"Uh, I think_ Die Hard_ is in there, give them here, I'll get it." He picks out the right disc and hands it to you, an expectant look on his face; you suppose you're in charge of putting it on. "Don't forget, you promised me junk food, now provide." You get off the sofa, stick the DVD in the player and throw him the remote, then go to the kitchen, coming back with a big bag of chips and another of Reese's pieces.

"Junk food." You throw them at him, you aren't sure if the odd flapping hand gesture he makes at the incoming snacks were attempts to catch them or stop them from hitting him in the face, it serves neither purpose but was amusing to watch. You grab the little box that his dreidel is in from your coat pocket and sit back down beside him, handing it to him.

"Was expecting you back later so it's not wrapped."

"Another one from dreidel guy?" He asks shaking the box.

"Hershel." You tell him.

"Hershel? Really?" He opens the box, picks up the little wooden dreidel and falls silent. "This is my tattoo." He's stroking the side of the dreidel with the tattoo from behind his ear burnt into it. Hershel does good work, you'll admit but you didn't think it would render him speechless. He turns it round to the next side. "Ace?" You nod, this side is a little Ace of Spades, copied from the one on his sleeve, he's wearing an oddly soft smile you've seen maybe twice before. The third side is a little Star of David, the soft smile stretches into the more familiar _Colt you're the best one_. The final side has him pausing, looking confused. "What's this?" He's pointing at the בּ on the fourth side.

"It's a bet." You tell him, you don't really want to have to explain this to him, you'd rather he just accept that there's a random Hebrew letter on his dreidel and give you your socks already.

"Why?" No such luck.

"A few reasons really." You feel him shifting beside you, tucking his legs up, no doubt, if you turned to look at him, he'd be like a kid on his first day of school, all wide-eyed and eager to learn. "It's the first letter of Torah."

"Isn't that T?" He interrupts, you look at him, he's grinning, still staring at his dreidel.

"Very funny."

"So it starts uh..."

"I can hear you thinking Jew bible, Punk."

"I am so pro-isms!" His protest is given half-heartedly, distracted as he is by running his nail along the little burns on his dreidel.

"_Anyway_, it's the first letter in the Torah. Look at it, see how it closes off everything before, above and below it." You catch the wrist of the hand holding his dreidel and show him what you mean. "The only important thing is what comes next, so Torah begins by cutting off everything that isn't important." You hope he'll understand the symbolism behind the other sides of the dreidel, the markings that represent the people who love and care for him the most. That soft smile is back, tempered with the _you're the best_ one.

"You said a few reasons. That's one." He says softly.

"The other reasons are well they're kind of Hebrew lessons, Punkers, you sure you want to hear them?" You know your voice sounds a little weird but there's not much you can do to stop it. When he left for OVW earlier in the year, everyone had been so proud, so very excited, sure that he'd get out of there soon but he seems to have stalled. Everyone is still so proud, you're still so proud but you know how he dwells and broods and gets disheartened, let's the negative outweigh the positive.

"Summarise." He says softly.

"Summarise? I'll try. Bet starts the word for blessed in Hebrew, it also has the numerical value of two. So the reason the Torah starts with a bet is because we should remember that our blessings will come from helping others."

"Huh?" He sounds desperately confused; you laugh and tilt his face up to look at you.

"The point of the bet is to remind you that you're blessed, Punkers. Everyone, everything from before, doesn't matter, us, the other three sides, we love you, we support you, we care. We're blessed to know you, we're proud of you, what you're accomplishing. We'll be there when you raise that ugly as fuck WWE title, we'll be there if they decide to future endeavour you, no matter what, we'll be there. So rely on us, Punkers." He looks away from you, looks suddenly embarrassed, he's been avoiding calling any of you because he's frustrated with being stuck in developmental, doesn't want to take it out on any of you unfairly, it's nice of him but entirely stupid. You catch his chin and turn his face back towards you. You rest your forehead against his. "We love you, you idiot. If you need to rant and complain call one of us, we'll listen, we'll help if we can, trust in us, okay?" He nods, blinking rapidly, you don't comment, just let him get himself back together and drink your hot chocolate, which really should be referred to as lukewarm chocolate really. You don't expect him to squirm over to you and rest his head on your shoulder when you sit back from having set the empty cup on the table but you probably should have. He pokes the opposite shoulder to where his head resting with your present and you take it from him, feel his hand settle on your shoulder, stroking it absently.

"Seems a bit shit now, really." He mutters, switching the movie on. You open it carefully, not mentioning the fact he's still staring at the dreidel, turning it around and around. The pair of socks you uncover are generically white but covered in writing. "Don't wash them; I had to beg Paul E to call in favours to get some of those." He says. You stare, it looks like he's managed to get the entire original ECW roster to sign a pair of socks, teenage you has just died of joy, grown up you is pretty close to it. "I told you, a bit shit by comparison." You kiss him, a frantic and desperate kiss, that's all teeth and tongue.

"How did you manage this?" You ask him, you can't believe how many names he's gotten on here, sure some of them, like Dreamer and Raven, you've already met but there are so many you haven't, so many people, that little Scott Colton was such a mark for, have signed these socks.

"Told you, had to beg Paul E so don't wash them. Happy Hanukkah, Colt" He sounds a little embarrassed and settles his head back on your shoulder as John McClane meets Argyle for the first time.

"Merry Christmas, Punkers."

* * *

Aplogies for any Hebraic and or Jewish inaccuracies, my information is all second-hand. If you have any pointers, I'd be happy to hear them.

**littleone1389**: Of course Punk loves the Monte! What man doesn't love his car? (and call it a woman?) Can you tell that instead of doing my work, I was playing with Crater... I think this is possibly the flufiest thing I have ever written as a counter point to the angst...

**InYourHonour**: I'm happy you're enjoying them! I hope Life calms down for you soon! :D

**alizabethianrose**: No smut this time round, just more fuzziness... Smut in later years I think though. :3 You never know, Colt might have sent Punk out in the cold! (or more likely they went together and ending up having a snowball fight on the way.)

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


	8. Eight Maids a Milking

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), Slash, profanity, 7 Sins Continuity

* * *

"I'm giving her another month tops." Ace mutters darkly as he enters the kitchen. The new girlfriend has joined Punkers in his trip home for Christmas. She's _nice_, you suppose, hot if nothing else, pretty face, great body but stupid, horribly painfully stupid.

"A month? I give till January sixth." Ace laughs and extends his hand.

"Usual?" You shake and nod, $20 rides on who's right.

"So, what do you think?" Punk joins you both.

"She seems _nice_." You say diplomatically.

"Let's face it, Punk; she probably thinks head scissors is slang for a sixty-nine." Ace smirks.

"You calling her stupid or a slut, Ace?" You choke back a laugh and Punkers looks offended.

"I'll let you work that out." Both you and Ace manage to play nice with her for a while but she grates on your nerves, her laugh is obnoxiously loud and her pretty face doesn't make up for it. You're beyond grateful when you get a text and manage to convince them that it's important and you have to leave. God bless AT &T for telling you about their latest offers. You make your excuses, leaving Christmas presents with them, receiving your own in turn and heading home.

You've been home maybe an hour when your cell rings.

_"I hate you."_

"Hello to you too, Punkers." You laugh down the phone at him, in the background you can hear cheerful giggles, girlfriend you suppose.

_"What the fuck were you thinking giving me that?"_

"Well, you're so far from home these days, I thought you might like something nice to take to bed with you to remind you of us. Something cuddly." You're so close to laughing at him, he sighs exasperated.

_"Cute, Cabana, real cute. Seriously, did you have to get one with eyes?" _The girlfriend is clearly enjoying his present even if he's on the phone bitching about it. It is cute though, you'll agree with her on that."_Hershel makes dreidels and stuffed animals then?" _He's definitely stalling for time, avoiding dealing with her; you're so winning this bet with Ace.

"Nope, he asked a friend of his to make it."

_"Your dreidel guy asked his stuffed animal guy to make me a plushie dreidel?"_

"Yup!" It had been a weird conversation with Hershel, the old man always seems amused by your requests to him, as though he looks forward to whatever madness, you'll be asking of him next. He'd apologised when he couldn't help and then called his friend who made teddy bears across town. Another little old Jewish man, who thought your request was hilarious and told you your girlfriend was lucky that you went to so much trouble. You'd awkwardly explained that Punkers wasn't a woman and certainly wasn't your significant other, which had made Hershel laugh and you then, had to find the right words to explain what you and Punkers were to each other. Your explanation was stilted and disjointed but in the end, both men had laughed and told you that you sounded like a pair of children.

_"Please tell me it doesn't sing. She'll fucking explode if it sings."_ You aren't sure how closely Hershel's friend followed your request but when the dreidel song starts drifting over the phone, you give up pretending to not be amused by his woes and burst into laughter. _"I hate you so fucking much right now."_ The sweet twee version of the song is quickly replaced with the loud punk cover. _"All is forgiven."_

"Merry Christmas, Punkers." You laugh at him.

_"Open your present, fucker. Happy Hanukkah."_ He laughs down the line and hangs up.

"I was sure I told you to open that." You're awoken from the nap you were having on your sofa by your Christmas present hitting you in the head and Punkers' moving your feet to sit in the space they were occupying.

"The fuck you doing here?" You blink at him sleepily, he's taken to absently rubbing your feet, the Star of David socks from years ago on your feet, they're getting a little worn at the heel but they're still faithful if ugly additions to your sock drawer.

"Open it, hurry up fucker, I'm on the clock."

"Where is the girlfriend anyway?" You start unwrapping the parcel he threw at you.

"Elsewhere."

"Specific, Punkers." You mutter, holding the socks up and staring at them in confusion. ""Where the fuck did these come from?"

"China probably but they were _bought_ on the Internet." You stare at the socks, on them is a trio of little cartoon figures, a little Ace, a little Punkers with bleached hair throwing up an X and a little you. The little caricatures are good, it's obvious who they're meant to be, which leads you to conclude that it was very much not Punkers who drew them; he has the artistic talents of a cookie. "You like them?"

"You got me Second City Saints socks?" Your brain is still half-asleep, it's having a hard time processing that such a thing exists, never mind that you're currently holding them.

"Do you like them?" He says slowly and your gaze flickers from the socks to him and back again, little sock Punkers is looking at you with a smug little smirk on his cute little face. You don't think you've ever considered Ace cute before but sock Ace, well sock Ace is and sock you, you're adorable even when you're not a little cartoon woven on to foot apparel, it merely enhances your cuteness.

"You got me _us_ socks." You still can't quite get over this, he looks mildly something, you sit up and rub your eyes, still a little groggy from your nap, mildly upset that is how he looks. You grab the back of his neck and pull him to lie over you, his body twisted awkwardly; he squirms making himself more comfortable. "How long do you have?" You ask, stroking his hair back and holding the socks up to compare them, real Punkers and his woven counterpart.

"Not long enough." He shakes his head and tries to turn to look at the socks; you keep his head still with the other hand.

"Cute." You mutter, letting him take a kiss from you, you resist the urge to deepen it, to take things further, you've not fucked in a while, he's been much harder to get a hold of since being called up to ECW but as he said he's on the clock.

"So you like them?" He asks again.

"You seem awful keen to get validation, Punkers." It's entirely not like him.

"Well if you like them, I could put them forward as a merch idea." His voice is casual but he's wearing a downright mischievous expression.

"Merch?" You ask, now you're just confused, why would the WWE want to be selling Second City Saints merch?

"Act surprised when someone else mentions it to you but they're having tryouts soon, they want you to go." He's grinning, that great big ridiculous grin. "So do you like them?" He asks once more, that grin not moving from his face, you find yourself returning it.

"I love them."

* * *

**littleone1389**: I am pretty certain that dreidel is insurpassable. The sappiest thing ever! :D

**InYourHonour**: It was a little fluffy wasn't it? :3

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


	9. Nine Ladies Dancing

_Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), Slash, profanity, 7 Sins Continuity._

* * *

_Don't stand on Phil! - Mom x_

It's a curious note to be pinned to your door you think, even by your mother's standards; she's a lovely woman but a little odd. You can't think of a reason you'd _want_ or be able to stand on Punkers, you can only hope he's not passed out asleep on the floor behind the door again, your nose still remembers two Christmases ago with resentment and pain.

"Why are you on the floor?" You shout into the apartment as you close the door behind you, checking for wayward Punks.

"I'm dying." Is his pitiful reply.

"Me too." You call back, kicking off your shoes.

"What of?" He sounds awful; you don't feel too much better yourself though.

"Black death." You hang up your coat and push the longue door open; the TV is playing some sort of documentary about what appears to be making buttons.

"Bullshit, do you hell have plague, fucker." His voice comes from somewhere in the room, your sinuses are too clogged for you to really be able to rely on your hearing.

"Pneumonia." You counter, which earns you a haughty snort.

"Sniffles." His tone is dismissive.

"Influenza." You finally spot him, lying on the ground between the sofa and the coffee table.

"Sniffles." His arms are wrapped about his midsection, eyes closed, looking utterly awful.

"A cold." You concede and step over him carefully, to flop onto the sofa. He's looks so very pitiful lying on the floor, one of the pillows from your bed tucked under his head, your mother's doing no doubt. It never fails to surprise you the way women will gleefully go out of their way for Punk, as though he has some kind of special pheromone that brings out their mothering instinct. Your mother was no exception, she's been a good Jewish mother to him since the day she first met your scruffy, wrestling friend Punk. "My mom was here?" He nods.

"Left soup, cleaned, told me to steal your bed, made something else that I was too busy dying to see, told me to steal your bed, gave me a pillow and left. Says she'll be back tomorrow to make sure I'm still alive."

"So what you dying of, Punkers?" He looks grimly sallow and thoroughly miserable; he suddenly bolts upright and vanishes to the bathroom. You hear noises that sound unpleasant, groaning, retching and toilet flushes, before what is likely him brushing his teeth.

"Nothing inside of me wants to be there anymore." He flops back down on the floor, closing his eyes and groaning. "It's all trying to escape one end or the other." You manage a sympathetic smile and start coughing. This cold is annoying and ridiculous; it's all coughing, snot and phlegm.

"That's a lovely visual, Punkers." He gives a weak laugh and groans again. "How long?" You're not sure if you're asking how long he's been sick, how long he's been at your place or how long he can stay.

"Few days." His answer is as helpfully ambiguous as the question you suppose. He sits up carefully and rests his hand on your forehead. "You're hot." He says, you know this, there's a light sweat on your brow, you can feel it; his hand feels horribly clammy against your skin. "Drink more water." He tells you, carefully lying back down.

"You even see the TV down there?" You ask him, if all you're going to be doing is lying around feeling like hell this Christmas, you want to make sure you're both entertained.

"Uh-huh." He moans, you lean over the sofa and try to imagine how he could see it, then realise that the coffee table's been shifted down a little, giving him a clear view, if his eyes were open to enjoy it.

"You're not too invested in buttons through the ages are you?" You ask him, finding the remote in the odd little holder your mother insisted you needed hanging over the arm of the sofa. He makes an indistinct noise and you assume that's a no. You start clicking through the channels; the motion is strangely soothing even if the noise is mildly annoying.

You don't notice you'd fallen asleep until you hear Punkers coming back into the lounge. He looks about the same but appears to be braving a glass of water.

"Finally awake, sleeping beauty?" Somehow he manages a smirk despite being half-dead. You groan and scrub at your face. Your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. There's another glass of water on the coffee table and a roll of toilet paper. He's such a good nurse you think to yourself. "You want some soup?" He asks as he sits gingerly down on the floor.

"You want some?" You stand and head for the kitchen, pausing at the door when he speaks.

"I want some but I couldn't keep it in." He sips more of the water and seems to be paling even further, you're sure he shouldn't be upright for very much longer. Even as you turn on the stove, you hear the bathroom door closing and him retching again. You're half way through the bowl before he reappears and collapses on the other end of the sofa. "I am so sick of this. Trade?" You set the bowl, now empty down, grab some of the toilet roll and scoot down beside him.

"Fuck no, I am not running puke every ten minutes." You tell him, blowing your nose.

"I wouldn't mind just puking." He mutters miserably. You toss the soiled paper on the table; you're going to need to remember to move the trash closer. You wrap one arm around him, squeezing his shoulders softly.

"Don't squish me." He moans and pulls away from you, resting his back against the arm of the sofa.

"You really feel that bad?" He looks terrible but _snuggling_, Punkers loves snuggling, even if it is staunchly denied as being snuggling. He makes a miserable groaning noise and you get off the sofa, go fetch the blankets and another pillow from your bed, you set the new pillow down against one arm and pass him his, you lay down on the sofa, your legs behind his, so he can get out quickly and start spreading the blankets out over you both. You've not had a bed on the sofa since you were a little kid and you were home sick from school, it feels rather good to be indulging in something so childish, you just wish it were under better circumstances.

In the end, you spend the night sleeping on the sofa, him getting up with distressing regularity and you using the interruption to your sleep as an opportunity to cough more phlegm up. The morning of Christmas brings your mother, whizzing through your apartment like a tornado, she forces you both to bathe and change, you'd not noticed that you'd been wearing the same clothes for two days. She cooks, she cleans, she leaves you with strict instructions to _make Phil eat something, poor little thing will waste away._ You're sure Punkers won't waste away, he's bulked up a lot in the land of the giants but he should probably _try_ and eat something. You aren't sure what instructions were given to Punk regarding you but there's a bowl of soup and a little brightly wrapped present, on the table waiting for you when you're dressed and out of the shower, Punk is carefully eating his own bowl.

You remember his present and try to remember where your mother had said she'd moved your bag to before she left. You find it eventually and return to the lounge, finding it empty, you hand him his present once he settles back down, from having visited the bathroom.

"I couldn't find a dreidel at the ninety-nine cents store." You tell him, you didn't have time to contact Hershel; developmental has kept you too busy. You sent him a text, saying you were sorry you couldn't come make a request of him this year, wishing him a Happy Hanukkah, which his granddaughter replied to, the reply had been mildly cryptic and you didn't really dwell on it. He opens his present with a surprisingly cheerful smile.

"I've been waiting eight years to get my pair of socks from you, Cabana." He grins at the generic, white multipack pair of socks; almost identical to the pair he'd given you all those years ago back in the Domain.

"Merry Atheist Christmas, Punkers." You smile at him.

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, Happy Hanukkah. Open your present." He's definitely grinning now. The parcel doesn't look much like socks this year. You open it carefully; the little wooden box beneath the paper is very familiar. Suddenly the reply of _Grandpa says its okay to switch_ makes so much more sense. Inside the little box is a generic little dreidel, you pick it up and notice the little X burnt into the top, a replica of the first dreidel you bought from Hershel. It somehow comes as no surprise that there's a disc in the box, you're willing to bet that it shows the birth of your dreidel."Wanna watch it?" He asks you.

"Here." You hand him the disc and he sticks it in the machine, coming back to the sofa and settling beside you for the first time since you've been back, resting his head on your shoulder, your hand moves to start carefully stroking his hair. "You feelin' better?"

"A bit. Now shh." The little movie starts with a shot of Hershel holding a block of wood, with an amused girn lighting up the old man's face.

_"So you're the girlfriend?"_

* * *

**littleone1389 & ****alizabethianrose**: Ladies, plushie dreidels real things, purchasable in your beautiful country! (I checked baidu, no idea if you can customise what they sing but with eyes and music, they're real!) Second City Saints socks, alas, fictional but I SO want a pair too... :3

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


	10. Ten Lords a Leaping

_Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, Slash, smut, profanity,__fluff (sort of),_ 7 Sins Continuity.

* * *

"You home?" You shout as you enter the apartment. It seems to be quiet, utterly deserted, no signs of life at all. You guess it was a rather naive hope that Punkers had managed to get back before you or would choose to be at your place at all, especially when there are so many other places for him to be. He's busy, his current feud with Regal is looking like it will be good, they have good chemistry but then again the old villain is a damn talented man. You remember meeting him for the first and being a little in awe, if you're honest you kind of fanboyed at him, feeling a lot like how you did back out on the Indys when you got to meet the legends of yore. You kind of miss having Punkers there to tag-team question the old boys but you've had plenty of time to get used to not having him around so much, doesn't stop you from missing him though. You've had pretty much nothing but time on your hands for the last few months, been busy enjoying the delights of WWE catering with your fellow jobbers. Future endeavouring is hanging over you, you can tell, you've some ideas to hopefully delay the inevitable but at this stage, that is all it feels like, delaying the inevitable. You spend a couple of hours on the sofa watching Comedy Central and eating dry cereal from the box, not exactly the most exciting or festive Christmas Eve but you've got nothing else to do, you're not due to visit your family till the twenty-sixth. You decide you should probably go to bed, you're not exactly tired but sleeping is something you should be doing. You send a quick text to Punkers and get off the sofa.

_Come by my place when you get back home, I've got your Christmas present waiting. - sent 00:13_

As you stand in the bathroom brushing your teeth you hear an odd little noise from the bedroom. It sounded like the noise phones make when they get a text. Your first thought is that's Punkers replying but your phone is on the counter by the sink where you left it with no messages received. Feeling a little like Kevin in Home Alone, you got to investigate, ready for a fight, you flick on the light and freeze. Shoes and coat still on, Cubs cap on the floor, fast asleep and curled around the plushie dreidel you gave him a couple of years ago, is Punkers.

"When'd you get back?" His voice a little hoarse and groggy, you look up from untying his shoes laces, you couldn't leave him sleeping in shoes and grin at him, he smiles at you sleepily, the plushie still clasped to his chest.

"Told you, you were a snuggler." You tell him and he scowls, clutching the dreidel closer.

"Fuck off." He mutters, toeing his shoes once you've untied them and sits up, unzipping his coat and tossing it in the corner. "So this you just back?" He's stripping his shirt off as he talks, then unzips and takes off his pants, pulling his socks off at the same time.

"Not exactly, didn't know you were here."

"Wanted to surprise you." He says, a silly grin on his face, you shake your head and leave the room. "Hey, get back here! I'm trying to seduce you!" You're getting his present before you forget since he seems wide-awake now and you want to see what he thinks of it. Hershel had ribbed you terribly when you went to see him back in November to give him your request; he'd told you that the girlfriend very much lived up to his name. You gave up trying to explain to the old man that you weren't dating Punkers; it would be like arguing with your Grandfather. When you went to collect it a few weeks later he'd given you a big bag of chocolate gelt to share with the girlfriend and you'd found yourself at a loss for what to say to that and ended up trying to pay him twice as much as you should have. Once Punkers has opened his dreidel, you'll happily be seduced; you might even give him some of the chocolate for breakfast in the morning.

"Here, open it, Punkers." You toss him the box once you come back, sitting on the end of the bed, watching him expectantly. He tears it open and grins, holding up his dreidel. You're impressed with the detail and the skill of Hershel's painting.

"I've not won the IC belt yet." He says as he strokes the little painting of the belt, the other two sides he's already looked at had the Big Gold belt and the Tag Team belts on them respectively. He turns to the fourth side and looks at you, the soft _really, Cabana _smile on his face, and you grin at him in response.

"You really think I'll be WWE Champion?" He asks stroking the little belt on his dreidel.

"Wouldn't be there if I didn't think you'd hold it, Punkers." Granted the WWE Champion strap he'll have won't be the Big Eagle one that's on the dreidel, you can only hope that whatever it is, it will be less ugly than the _blinged_ out monstrosity it is currently. He smiles at you, the _Colt you're the best_ smile and then kisses you, frantic and messy, his hands worming under your clothes and trying to pull them all off at once. You catch his hands and press him back against the bed, leaning over him, not breaking the kiss. He wriggles his hands out of your hold and they wrap about you, stroking your shoulder blades with slow movements, the kiss slows, softens, deepens, when your lips part, you rest your forehead against his. He smiles up at you; hands moving to cup your face and draw you back down for another kiss, soft and slow once more. Breaking the kiss, you sit back on your haunches and pull your shirt over your head; he follows you and kisses you again, still soft and slow. When the kiss is broken, he squirms out from underneath you.

"Get undressed and lie on your back." He tells you as he gets off the bed, shedding his boxers and fetches the lube, by the time he gets back you've stripped and are lazily stroking yourself to hardness. He bats your hand out of the way, tosses you the lube and straddles you, his ass facing you. "Get me ready, fucker." He mutters before taking your cock in his mouth. He starts to suck you, you feel yourself firming rapidly in the tight, damp warmth of his mouth. It takes a lot out of you to focus on the task he's assigned you, coordinating yourself enough to open the lube, to pour enough into your hand and then be able to start fingering him, whilst he's blowing you is something you believe should earn you a medal. You start slowly, opening him up carefully, it's been a little while since you've been together like this, his body gets tighter and tighter every time, you swear. You add a second and third finger eventually, stretching and prepping him for you.

"Okay, okay, enough Punkers." You tap his thigh, he's ready and you've felt long past ready for a while. He moves and you pour some lube over your cock, trying hard not to stroke too much, you don't want this to be over too soon. He positions himself over your legs, takes your cock in his hand and slowly lowers himself on your length, its will power alone that keeps your hips from bucking up into him and filling his body more quickly. Once your fully sheathed inside of him, he leans over you and kisses you again, soft and thorough. He moves slowly, raising his body only a little, less fucking himself on your cock and more gently rocking on it. He keeps this slow, teasing pace up for entirely too long for your liking, it's gentle, it's pleasant but it's driving you mad and he seems to know it, the lazy smile on his face whenever he break a kiss with you leaving you in no doubt that he is purposefully teasing you. "Fuck, Punkers, move." You stroke his ear in retaliation at his gentle teasing; he turns and nips your fingers but is smiling that one smile that makes him look so very beautiful. He does lean back and start to move more, raising himself up further and coming down more quickly. You fumble for the bottle of lube and manage to pour some into your hand before you take hold of his cock and start stroking him, far faster than he's riding you. He speeds up to match your strokes and you groan, that's so much better. You buck up into him, making him falter in his movements.

"Ah, fuck. Again, fucker." He moans and you feel a rather smug smirk stretching your lips. You do as he asks and buck up as he moves down; synchronicity comes easily to you both, your bodies fall into step with one another so very easily. You aren't sure which of you comes first but you're keenly aware of the feeling of his body clenching around you, his warm cum on your stomach and the weight of him settling on top of you awkwardly.

After several moments, he raises himself off your softening cock and sprawls beside you, a lazily content smirk on his face. You stroke his hair from his eyes and smile back at him, he snuggles up to you, arms wrapped around one of yours, his forehead against your shoulder, one leg over yours. You press a kiss to his hair and feel him kiss the skin of your arm. "Merry Christmas, Punkers." He makes a vague sleepy noise that might be _good night_ but you can't be quite sure.

You're awoken by something hitting you in the face, you're incredibly glad he's gone back to socks this year.

"Happy Hanukkah, Colt, uh Scotty, I guess." He wrinkles his nose, the new name they gave you offends him terribly, you're not exactly okay with it but at least this awful run with the WWE isn't going to affect the name of Colt Cabana. If and when they get rid of you, you can leave Scotty and his lack of gold, man, behind in the history books. He squirms over to you and wraps himself around one arm, opening presents one-handed is not easy but you manage. The socks that you reveal are covered in little cardboard boxes and the same ugly mix of purple and green that the background of the box you were in for your debut back in August. He might be pissed that they're wasting you, his words and that make you swell with a rush of pride but he is proud of you at the same time, which makes that rush a deluge. You smack the socks on the back of his head and he looks at you, a scowl on his face. He opens his mouth to complain and you kiss him, you think that chocolate coins are probably a reasonable breakfast for Christmas Day.

* * *

**littleone1389**: I was still a little intimidated writing a sick Punk fic but I am so glad you enjoyed it! Boys are gross ;) I had to edit out a lot more bodily functions from the first draft... it was too visceral for me. :D Hope you like this one. :3

**alizabethianrose**: Hershel is an observant old man, I rather like him. :3 I accept no resposiblity for th purchasing of plushie dreidels... I do however admit to extreme levels of jealousy. :3

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


	11. Eleven Pipers Piping

___Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), profanity, 7 Sins Continuity._

* * *

_You going to be back for Christmas? - sent 08:56_

_No, house show 26th. - Punkers 08:59_

You know you shouldn't feel disappointed but really, you've spent nearly every Christmas with him for the last nine years. It will be strange not seeing him, not giving him his dreidel, not watching whatever inappropriate but tenuously linked to Christmas via Punk-logic movie he's decided on. You were also looking forward to teasing him about the hobo look he's got going on at the moment, you'd hope to maybe persuade him to bleach his hair and beard, he'd make a fabulous hobo Santa. If you're entirely honest, you wanted to complain too. _Funny doesn't equal money_ is something you're so sick of hearing, Cornette is a prick and you wanted to lie head in Punkers' lap and rant and bitch and complain until he's laughing at you. For most people this would not be the behaviour they'd expect of their best friend but Punkers knows you, knows if you wanted sympathy, you'd call your mom, if you wanted advice you'd call Ace. When you bitch to him, he knows you don't need a _poor thing, it'll be okay_ or _well here's what I'd do_, what you need is him laughing it off, it's nothing you can't handle, that you're worried or even irritated by something so trivial is funny.

The morning of the twenty-fourth a furious banging on your apartment door wakes you up. Your first thought is that he's changed his mind but forgotten his key. The thought stays with you till you open the door to a stressed looking UPS guy and a large box. He hands you the box and the little machine you've to sign, leaving you with a harried _Merry Christmas_. You set the box on the coffee table and stare at it, confused. It's large and plain, your address on a printed label and the instructions do not open until December twenty-fifth. It might be from Punkers, you suppose but he's a cheap bastard and a box this size would be expensive. You attempt to work out if it could be from relatives or some other person but you keep drawing blanks. The day passes without event, you go to your parents, your mother attempting to give you several dozen latkes for Punkers and you've to tell her he won't be home this year, which led to her asking if you've had a fight, you're beginning to think that anyone Jewish and over sixty assumes that you and Punkers are dating. When you went to pick up Punkers' dreidel and the ridiculously huge bag of chocolate gelt, you brought the old man a present this year in case, Hershel had asked when you were going to take the girlfriend on a trip to Massachusetts. You rolled your eyes and didn't deign to answer the question. The rest of the day you spend between friends' places and catching up with people you've probably been neglecting what with you being back on the hustle. Your future endeavouring came as you had expected and whilst it had been a blow, a hard one at that, you're moving on, working even harder. When it happened the first call you received had been from him, full of righteous anger and threats of quitting so you weren't on your own, it had taken an at once a distressingly and comfortingly long time to talk him out of quitting. The only way you'd convinced him in the end was telling him you were working the next day at PWG against Hero. This had calmed him long enough for you to tell him you should accept the call from your mom, as she kept showing up on call waiting. Your dream is on hold for now, you can live it vicariously through him anyways and you're back out on the Indys. Independent wrestling isn't something to be ashamed of though, it's something to be _proud_ of and you are damn proud of what you're doing. You go to bed surprisingly early, you're tired, the day was uneventfully exhausting.

Your phone wakes you up on Christmas morning, you fumble for it blindly and hope whoever the hell it is, is ready to face your wrath, your dreams were pleasant, sweet even and you'd rather still be having them.

_"Happy Hanukkah, fucker."_ He sounds distressingly awake.

"Punkers?" You don't, you sound distressingly half-asleep.

_"What, I wake you up, Cabana? Shouldn't be lazing around in bed on Christmas morning." _He sounds like he's had too much coffee and not enough sleep, again.

"Punk, it's not even seven." You think this should serve as an indication that being asleep at this time was entirely reasonable. He laughs down the phone at you, your protestations falling on deaf ears, clearly.

_"Go open your box, fucker."_ So the mystery box was from him, how unexpected yet entirely expected all at the same time.

"What's in it? Fucking big box to be just a pair of socks, Punkers." You mutter down the phone to him and he laughs in your ear again. "When was the last time you slept? You sound insane."

_"I sleep! I slept lots." _

"When?"

"_Uff, blah, blah, blah. Open the box!" _You shake your head at him; your best friend is an idiot. _"I can hear you insulting me in your head, fucker. Open the box."_

"I wasn't saying a word, Punkers! Honest." You put your phone on speaker and go to get a knife from the kitchen.

_"You don't need to say a word for me to know you're insulting me, Colt. I'm a fucking mind reader. You opening the box yet?"_

"Gimme a second, I need something to get it open."

_"You mean you're not just gonna Hulk up and rip it open, brother?" _You laugh at him and slice the tape holding the box closed off, opening it and staring. _"Oi! Why so quiet? Cabana? Colt? Scott? You there?"_

"You got me my own merch for Christmas?" The box is full of Cabanarama headbands, hundreds of them, he laughs and you glance down at the phone incredulously.

_"No, don't be ridiculous. Those are for selling. Your present is under them."_ You move the headbands out of the way and under them is a big bottle of Pepsi, a box of Lucky Charms, a stack of DVDs and a cheerfully wrapped little parcel.

"You want me to open it?" You ask, wondering if he wants you to wait for him to be there so he can get his dreidel.

_"No, I want you keep it for your birthday. Open your damn present, Cabana!" _His voice has an edge of amusement beneath the exasperation; you shake your head and unwrap your socks.

"They're very plain this year, Punkers. You out of ideas?" The socks you unwrapped are entirely plain white.

_"Turn them over!"_ He definitely sounds overly excited. You turn the socks over and start laughing, you can't help it, the soles of the socks are printed, literally covered with a picture of John Laurinaitis' face. You're suddenly reminded how he had snarled that Laurinaitis wasn't even good enough to kiss the ground you walked on when you were fired. Angry Punkers is verbose and overly sentimental sometimes bit you suppose he remembered saying it and meant it or he likes the idea of you tramping on Laurinaitis' face.

"I'm sure it wasn't his decision to fire me, Punkers." You find your voice catching in the back of your throat; you're overly sentimental too sometimes. He huffs down the phone, sounding like he's just taken a deep breath and is breathing out slowly to try and stay calm.

_"He's a fucking douche."_ Is his succinct answer, you pull your Big Johnny Aces socks on and snap a picture, sending it to him, you hear him almost cackling with amusement. _"So what movie do you wanna watch first?" _You hear what sounds like a bottle of soda being open; he can't mean to stay on the line all day.

"You really gonna be on the phone all day?" You really can't believe that this is plan, the soda in your box, the stack of DVDs; it'll cost him a fortune.

_"We always spend Christmas together." _His voice is strangely quiet. _"It's a Cabana and Punk thing, isn't it?"_ You laugh softly, it _is_ a Punk and Cabana thing, you begin looking through the DVDs.

"Punkers, how the hell are you justifying _Raging Bull _as a Christmas movie?"

_"Cabana, really? Come on! That should be obvious!" _You find yourself smiling at his indignant tone, can picture the expression he'd be wearing, disbelief and hint of mischief, you miss him, you're gonna have to monopolise his time when he's home next, which reminds you.

"When you back home?"

_"Before New Years, you better not eat all my latkes before I get back."_ He sounds incredibly concerned about his latkes, a hint of fondness just under the concern. You decide against informing him that your mother kept them at your parents' place to ensure they were still around when he gets back, let him worry for a while. _"So what movie do you wanna watch?" _You have a sudden epiphany.

"Joe Pesci! That's why _Raging Bull _is a Christmas movie."

_"Raging Bull it is, then"_

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**littleone1389**: It was smutty smut, I'll give it that... Hangovers and smut writing go hand in hand for me! ¬_¬; I would say great minds think alike but for those two, I think fools seldom differ is more accurate. I had to put the dreidel hugging in, it just struck me as so cute when you mentioned it to me! :3

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


	12. Twelve Drummers Drumming

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), profanity, 7 Sins Continuity.

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"Where the fuck are you?" You've tried behind at least three different doors in your quest to locate him. Punkers' house is entirely too big, especially considering more often than not it's just him in it. The current girlfriend has a place of her own, this fact has given her a few extra weeks in the bet you made with Ace when she first came on the scene.

"In here!"

"Specifics, Punk." You mutter and try the _other_ lounge. The ridiculously big TV is on, playing something that looks like that documentary about making buttons again. You assume that he'll be on the floor, for all his claims that his hip is better, that it's not bothering him as much anymore, he keeps limping and laying on floors, a sure sign he is lying. "How's the hip?" You ask stepping over him to sit on his ludicrously comfy sofa; you would entirely not complain if he wanted to trade sofas with you. You set the bag of goodies you're carrying down on the floor.

"Sore." He looks like he's in pain, his eyebrows drawn and his mouth a thin little line.

"My mom gave me latkes for you, you want some?" You take the box of latkes your mother made from the bag and dangle it over his face. He cracks one eye open, glancing at you and then focuses on the box.

"They cold?" He asks, moving as though considering sitting up and then changing his mind, a wince of pain on his face.

"I'll heat them up." You stand with a smile and head for his kitchen. "Why are you watching the button show again?" You call out to him.

"It's not about buttons." His reply is mildly exasperated.

"What is it about then?" You've seen this part of the same damn documentary almost as many times as Half-Baked now and it sure as hell looks like buttons through the ages.

"It's." He pauses; you hear him swearing loudly and briefly consider going to check on him. "It's about the evolution of clothing."

"So buttons through the ages?" You flip the latke you're warming through over and try to remember which of the million cupboards he keeps his plates in.

"Open your present, fucker." He mutters from his spot on the floor as you come back into the room. He looks like he's moved, you suppose that's what the swearing was about, your Christmas present is on the coffee table. You set his plate and cutlery down beside it, before settling yourself on the floor near his head and start eating the latkes you heated for yourself. "Hey, didn't your mom make those for me?" He looks up at you, a disapproving expression on his face.

"Christmas is a time for sharing, Punkers. I'm just ensuring you get in the spirit." You tell him as he awkwardly manoeuvres himself into an upright position, he eats quickly and resettles on the floor, this time his head in your lap, thankfully after you'd finished eating yourself, trading your plate for your Christmas present, setting it on the floor beside the bag with his in it. You stroke his hair, you miss it being long. This new short look does kind of suit him but you're not sure about the blond tips, it's a little boy-band for your taste. He did at least cut the beard, which is something to be very happy about, the hobo beard was an interesting look but really it did nothing for his looks. This one though, it looks good, now if he'd just sleep to make his bags smaller, he'd look pretty good. He seems to be dozing off as you gently stroke his face and hair, until your fingers brush his ear and he turns to try and bite you. After all this time, the fact he still doesn't like you touching his ears amuses you far more than it should. He glares up at you and you smile your sheepish _sorry Punkers_ smile.

"Open your present." He relents in the face of your contrite appearance. You do as he asks and unwrap the little parcel. Your socks this year are inspiring.

"Merch prototype?" You ask him. "I don't know how well socks would sell to the Indy marks though." He chuckles and smiles up at you.

"Come on, Cabana, who wouldn't want pastel blue socks? I have a pair!" He raises his good leg and you notice that the socks on his feet are indeed the same as the ones you just unwrapped, pastel blue with _I Colt_ written on them. He grins up at you and you bop him on the nose with the socks.

"I will take your suggestion into consideration, Punkers." You smile at his mild look of annoyance.

"Still think you should sell those Second City Saints socks, I got you years ago." He's mentioned this a few times before, you're not going to do it for two main reasons, mostly because you're pretty sure the ROH faithful aren't as invested in socks as he is, must be an Atheist thing.

"Oh, blah, blah, blah, Punkers. No one else is getting _my_ socks." That is the other reason, they're a present from Punkers, they're special, you've not even managed to throw away the first pair of socks he gave you, despite them having not been white for years and there being a hole in the toe of one. They're important to you, just as his dreidels are to him; they've even got their own shelf, although the plushie one doesn't get to sit on it very often, you suspect it goes on the road with him. "Merry Christmas, open your present." He takes the present from you and unwraps it without sitting up. He stares at the little dreidel in confusion.

"I don't get it." He's turning it around slowly reading each side, written on them are _Stay Where You Are_, _Go Somewhere Else_, _Push for More Money _and _Do What Makes You Happy_.

"Your contract's up next year." You say softly. You know him, he'll have already started thinking about what he should do, you've heard him bitch and whine about being cold as ice John Cena's TV program. He's going to start asking for people's opinions on what he should do and you want to make sure yours is the first he gets. "Thought it might help you pick what to do." You move his head from your lap, your feet are going to sleep and sit on the sofa. He squirms and leans his back against your shins, spinning his dreidel on the table, your hand absently petting his hair.

"I've spun this a thousand times now." He says holding the little dreidel up and turning to look at you, eyebrow raised. "It always lands on the same side, Cabana." You shrug, you know it does, you had Hershel rig it so it did. You don't want him to throw his dreams away because he's frustrated now but you don't want him to be unhappy either. This is why the dreidel always lands on _Do What Makes You Happy_.

"Well, luck is for losers isn't it?" He carefully stands, rubbing his hip, cuffs the back of your head and straddles your legs. "What you doing?" His hands are cupping your cheeks, his thumbs stroking your face.

"Taking the dreidel's advice. Happy Hanukkah, Colt" He says as he kisses you.

* * *

**littleone1389**: The end! I hope you liked it! I had to have one year where they weren't together, it seemed like a sweet little idea to me. :3

**alizabethianrose**: I doubt Punk would be up for visiting for the reason Hershel is suggesting! :D

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_

_**Merry Christmas to everyone who read, faved, reviewed, stood quietly in the back and read. :)**_

This is the end here, probably, I have a little idea for Christmas 2011, which may or may not get written tomorrow, it depends entirely on how much baijiu I consume tonight.


	13. And A Partridge in a Pear Tree

_Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), profanity, 7 Sins Continuity._

* * *

_On the balcony. Leave your coat & shoes on. - Punkers 14:56_

The text message comes just as you finish taking your shoes off, you sit on the floor to pull them back on and wonder what the hell your idiot of a best friend is up to. He's been in a curiously good mood since Survivor Series, being Champion is currently making him happy, being stuck in some sort of feud with Laurinaitis is going to bug him eventually but for now, he's downright giddy.

The balcony looks to be deserted when you get there, pushing open the sliding door and stepping out on to it.

"Punkers?" You call out to him, it's not a big space and there isn't really anywhere he could be hiding apart from behind you. You turn and the snowball smacks you in the face.

"Merry Christmas, Cabana!" He's wearing a ridiculously mischievous grin and holding another snowball; you duck as soon as he launches it at you and quickly form your own, managing to catch him on the shoulder as he tries to twist out of its way. The battle seems to be on from there, the amount of snow in the small space is limited but it takes time to either trample or throw it all at each other. You find yourself leaning against the house wall, staring warily across at him, as he slumps against the low wall around the edge of the balcony. "I'd wanted to make a snowman, you know." He sounds mildly remorseful. "You think there's enough?" You look around, most of the snow is now depleted ammunition or flattened by both of you trying to gather more snow and avoid snowballs, there seems to be enough on the wall by him to make what would be the shittiest snowman ever.

"You do the head, I'll do the body." You tell him, as you scoop up some of the spoils of war and begin forming them into something resembling a ball. When it's done Frosty, the shit snowman stands maybe a foot tall, with a hat made out of snow and dimes for eyes. It's truly the most pitiful excuse for a snowman you've ever seen but he's snapping pictures of it so gleefully, you don't have the heart to criticise the artistic effort that went into making it.

"Fuck, its freezing. Come on, in, Cabana." He makes hurry motions at you and you go through the door, peeling off your snow covered coat and shoes and making your way over to the sofa. He shuts the door behind him and frowns. "Still fucking cold, come on." He's walking along in front of you shivering a little to the other smaller lounge, the one with the big fake fire in it. He switches it on and stands over it for a short while; you sit on the sofa, which is almost but not quite as comfy as the ridiculously comfy sofa in the big lounge. You're planning on asking for that sofa in his will. "Fuck this, you want some cocoa? I'm making." He asks, still shivering slightly.

"You want a hand, Punkers?" You're nodding and getting to your feet as you speak but he shakes his head and leaves the room, bound for the kitchen. You take the opportunity to go and fetch his Christmas present from by the front door, where you left it. The little box is surprisingly heavy this year. Hershel hadn't been able to make the dreidel for you but you'd known that there would be a little old Jewish man he knew who could. The longer you've known the old man, the more you think he's actually head of some kind of Jewish artisan mafia, you're certain you could go to him with any problem and he'd have it solved in no time. The dreidel had been expensive, you get the feeling that even though it was expensive, it came at a discount because you were Hershel's friend.

You're settled back down on the sofa staring at the pretend flames when he comes back, bundled up in a blanket that looks like it came from his bed. He hands you a steaming mug of hot chocolate, little marshmallows floating in it and sets what appears to be a plate microwave smores down on the table in front to you. You're surprised he doesn't sit beside you, when he chooses to sit closer to the fire, blanket wrapped over his head, his back to you. You try and work out what could be bothering him but are drawing blanks. You grab the smores and your mug, set them down in front of him and sit behind him, resting your back against the table and drawing him back to lean against you.

"What is it, Punkers?" You rest your chin on his shoulder he squirms and tugs at the blanket; you take it from him and wrap it around you both, letting him clutch it in his hands once more.

"Was thinking." His voice is oddly maudlin.

"Oh, you strain something." You squeeze him tightly, cutting off a sharp retort before it's formed.

"A year ago, we were here, in this house."

"Well you live here, Punkers. If I'm gonna spend Christmas with you, we really have a choice of two venues, your place or my place and your sofa is comfier than mine." You squeeze him again when he snorts. "I don't know how I always end up on the floor when your sofas are so _very_ comfy."

"Nothing's changed, Cabana." He still sounds desperately odd.

"Lots has changed, Punkers. You're Champion, you're making fucktons of money, you're doing really well."

"You're still on the hustle." He somehow manages to mix annoyed, frustrated, apologetic and miserable all into one tone, your best friend is a multi-talented man. Well at lest you have an inkling of what was bothering him now.

"When they hired me, it was because my friends wouldn't shut up about me. They didn't really want me, didn't really know what to do with me." You squeeze him again, wriggle your hands under his shirt to start stroking his stomach, trying to warm him up, he seems unreasonably cold, he better not be getting sick.

"Because Creative are fucking idiots." You note that bitter has been added to the mix, perhaps his being thwarted by Big Johnny is already getting to him.

"If they hire me back, I want it to because of what I've done, not because I have the Champ batting for me." You press a kiss to his ear and hold him firm as he tries to squirm out of your hold to visit violence upon your person.

"Well, I'm glad you and cold as ice John Cena have patched up your differences." He mutters, stilling in your arms to rest against you peacefully once more. "Your present's on the table." He says after awhile, sounding slightly drowsy, you were in a dose yourself, the fake flames crackling and his warming body against you were pleasant.

"Oh, so's yours." You free one arm from the little nest you're bundled up in and grope blindly behind you, feeling the little dreidel box and the squishier form of your present. You hand him his box, expecting him to tear it open but all he does is hold it. He tilts his head back on your shoulder and grins.

"Happy Hanukkah, open your present." You shrug and do as he asks. They socks don't seem to be a pair this year, one is covered in signatures, dozens of signatures, with Punker's slightly messy scrawl on the top of it reading _Petition for the hiring of Colt Cabana_. You chuckle softly.

"Told you, you don't need to do that." He shrugs.

"The other one." You shake your head and look at the second sock.

_Dear Mr Cabana, _

_It has been brought to my attention that you believe that I hate you. Allow me to take this time to assure you that I in no way hate you. I am in fact a HUGE fan of Matt Classic. :)_

_Sincerely, John Cena_

"You got _John Cena_ to write me a formal apology on a sock?"

"If he's going to be my friend, he has to apologise for offending my Cabana." Punkers says haughtily, you have a vision of him saying this to a mildly bewildered looking Cena.

"You're an idiot, Punkers." You can feel your familiar _my best friend is an idiot_ smile stretching your lips.

"I am a good friend! You should be grateful!"

"Yes, Punkers, thank you, Punkers. Open your present, idiot." He tears the paper open and stares at the little wooden box.

"Does Hershel know you're cheating on him with a new dreidel guy?" The box is very different to the rather plain ones Hershel usually packages Punkers' dreidel in. He opens the box and then slaps the lid closed. "How much money did you spend on that?" You laugh softly.

"Not as much as you'd think, Hershel hooked me up." You take the lid off the box and pick the dreidel out, holding it up for him to see. "It's pretty, huh?" His dreidel this year is made of metal, glistening gold set with little red and white gems, the Hebrew characters picked out in them, the entire thing modelled after his Championship Title. Hershel's friend is damn talented. You spin it slowly letting him look at each side, before taking his hand and passing the dreidel to him. "I told you how proud I was of you back in July but this is just a reminder." He turns in your arms, an odd soft look in his eyes, you cup his face and draw him closer to you, rest your forehead against his. "We're all proud of you; remember if you need us, if you need me, call, text, email. Don't sit and brood on it, Punkers." You wonder how long it'll take him to notice the little PMA written on the top of the dreidel. He nods, blinking rapidly and turns back around, shuffles down a little, so his head is against your chest and starts examining the dreidel more carefully, brushing his finger over the top of the PMA. You loop your arms around him, squeezing him and stroking the skin of his neck with one thumb. "Merry Christmas, Punkers."

* * *

_**Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you're having fun and are more sober than I am. ;)**_

**littleone1389**: In the end I couldn't resist writing it, mostly because I missed snuggling under a blanket in front of a fire from your list of suggestions out. :D

**adg88: **Thank you and Merry Christmas! :D

_**Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D**_


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